


Say It Like You Mean It

by thechaoscryptid



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Firsts, Future Fic, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Skype, Texting, Yuri Plisetsky is bad at feelings, and so is Otabek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25604911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechaoscryptid/pseuds/thechaoscryptid
Summary: Otabek’s firstbabyslips from his lips amidst the heat of an Almaty summer, over the rim of his coffee cup and weighted with the sleep he hasn’t been able to shake yet. It dances across the kitchen on the sun streaming through the window all the way to Yuri’s ears, landing gently to soothe and tease all at once. His eyes slip shut as he takes a deep drink, but snap open in the next second when Yuri’s delicate flush registers, and he has to spit the mouthful into the sink to (very narrowly) avoid choking.Three times Otabek called Yuribabyand one time he meant to.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 22
Kudos: 79





	Say It Like You Mean It

**Author's Note:**

> Will probably be slow-ish to update, but the stupid plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so here I am, writing it down!

Otabek’s first  _ baby  _ slips from his lips amidst the heat of an Almaty summer, over the rim of his coffee cup and weighted with the sleep he hasn’t been able to shake yet. It dances across the kitchen on the sun streaming through the window all the way to Yuri’s ears, landing gently to soothe and tease all at once. His eyes slip shut as he takes a deep drink, but snap open in the next second when Yuri’s delicate flush registers, and he has to spit the mouthful into the sink to (very narrowly) avoid choking.

Yuri simply raises a brow. “Smooth, Altin.”

“‘S still early, I get a pass,” Otabek manages, clearing his throat and failing to quell the blush he feels creeping down into his neck. He concentrates on the floor in front of him and sets his jaw. “Good morning,  _ Yura,”  _ he corrects.

“Mm, morning,  _ Beka,”  _ Yuri mimes. Hefting one leg onto the counter, he leans into a stretch as Otabek  _ staunchly  _ refuses to meet his gaze. He seems to sense the unease, the cloud of...not quite  _ shame,  _ but certainly  _ panic  _ that’s quickly settling around Otabek’s head. “Still planning on driving me to the airport, or do you need to get to practice?”

“And miss seeing you pouting at the gate? Not a chance.” Otabek snorts and chances a glance up, gaze flicking from toned calves to the strip of skin revealed by Yuri’s quickly riding-up shirt before it finally lands on his lips.

A mistake, but an excellent one, and Yuri’s smirk sends all sense straight out the window. 

“I can miss half a day to say goodbye,” he continues, as though his heart’s beating normally and breathing is easy. “They can yell at me for it later.” 

“Look at you, rebelling,” Yuri says, and finally Otabek can meet his eyes. “Hellion.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Otabek turns his attention back to drinking, grateful Yuri seems content enough to let the slip go. “You act like you weren’t the one telling me ‘skate with me, it’ll be nice’ those years ago. My poor parents still haven’t recovered.”

“But we looked hot.”

_ Fuck.  _ A split second away from choking again, Otabek sets his cup on the counter and sets his jaw. “We did.”

“Mila still teases me about that,” Yuri says fondly, eyes softening as he stares into the distance over Otabek’s shoulder. “Tells me I haven’t looked that good since. I told her she’s always been a hag--Lilia got after me for that, she walked in halfway through me yelling it.”

“Imagine that, you being rude.”

Yuri comes back down to earth to give Otabek a knowing look. “Call it part of my charm.”

“Yeah, sure,” Otabek says. “Yuri Plisetsky, the charmer.”

“Hey, I’m nice, once you get past… Well, I’m nice to you.” Yuri sticks out his tongue before switching legs, opening his frame and looking every bit a sin as he brings his mug to his lips--the one Otabek keeps for him always, settled next to his in the cupboard for the once or twice a year they  _ do  _ get together in Almaty. “You don’t make me want to be a dick.”

Otabek smiles around the rim of his mug because he knows  _ exactly _ how big of an admission that is. Yuri didn’t get to be where he is today by being the kind competitor everyone loves to fawn over, no--he’s earned the name Ice Tiger again and again, outburst after outburst smoothed over by a frigid glare when press gets too close for comfort. 

He also knows it’s no small thing Yuri trusts him enough to let down those walls, just a bit.

Yuri hisses when the cat decides it’s time for a morning stretch, latching onto his leg before he unceremoniously shoves her away. “Not ever the time, Tarja,” he says. “Even Potya knows better, and she’s dumb enough to run herself into the windows.”

Tarja yowls, then yawns, and finally settles on wrapping around Otabek’s feet and purring. He squats down, carefully holding his coffee away from her tail as he smooths his hand over her head. “He’s a big meanie, I know,” he soothes, pointing to the living room. “But you have your tree right there.” 

When he stands, Yuri’s got a curious look on his face. Not  _ questioning  _ curious--it’s more subtle than that. It’s concentration, searching... _ longing? _

Otabek can’t say for sure, but the look flickers away in the next second, because that’s a wall Yuri’s not willing to let come down yet, apparently. 

“It’s cute that you think she’ll listen,” Yuri says.

“I have enough practice with you to know she won’t,” Otabek says, forcing lightness into his tone as he tries not to concentrate too hard on the movement of Yuri’s throat while he swallows the last of his drink. “Guess being your friend does have its benefits.”

Yuri sets down the mug and holds up a hand. “All the latest gossip, I come steal your bed every so often, make you clean your apartment--”

Before he can put down more fingers, Otabek shoves the hand away with a groan. “I clean even if you’re not around.”

“Tarja, is that true?”

“Cute you think she’ll listen,” Otabek parrots, and then softer, just because he doesn’t want to waste the chance, “Very cute.” 

It’s a very thin tightrope he walks, being this close and yet so far away. The feet between them might as well be miles, because though it would be easy to reach over and card his fingers through Yuri’s flaxen hair, it’s a distance he can’t bring himself to cross yet. Those two words hang heavier than the accidental pet name, and in the few seconds before Yuri breaks the stare, Otabek’s pretty sure Yuri can hear the  _ stay  _ that beats like a drum through his head.

“Can you do my hair for me before I leave?” Yuri asks, loud and startling in the quiet. “I, uh, you...you’re always better at it than I am.”

It’s because Otabek’s spent hours with his sister, practicing braid after braid in the hopes that it’ll make him somehow more endearing, a little more indispensable to the other man. He loves it when Yuri asks, because it means he’s allowed to be close for a few minutes. 

“Sure, Yura, I can do your hair.”

His unspoken  _ I’d love to  _ hangs dark on his tongue. It’s not that he can’t ever say the word around Yuri, it’s just that here, with Yuri’s bedhead lit like a halo around his face, he’s not sure he’d be able to stop the  _ because I love you  _ that always wants to come after. 

“Concentrate on that coffee any harder and you’re going to give yourself an aneurysm,” Yuri says, settling back onto two feet and breezing past Otabek into the bedroom to poke through his suitcase. “Where did my sweats end up?”

“Tarja probably dragged them under the bed,” Otabek says. 

There’s rummaging sounds and a low groan just after Yuri hits his head on the frame, and Otabek dumps their mugs into the sink before leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.

“Your apartment’s out to get me,” Yuri whines when he straightens up. He stands, turns, walks over to Otabek with his palm pressed to his forehead. “I’m telling people my best friend beats me.”

“I  _ did,  _ or have you forgotten already?” Otabek grins at the scowl that draws over Yuri’s face, and then wider at the way he groans and thumps his face against Otabek’s shoulder. “You were pretty proud of me, too, if I remember.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Yuri says, but it’s a fond sort of exasperation that colors his voice. “Just because Viktor and the pig aren’t in the running anymore--”

“You’re getting  _ soft,”  _ Otabek says, and he pulls away, because Yuri’s temple is begging to be kissed as it reddens. “You’ll get me next season, don’t worry.”

“Fuckin’ hate you.”

“Nah.” Otabek flattens his palm against the small of Yuri’s back and pushes gently. “Go shower. You’ll feel better when you get home.”

Yuri’s grumbling continues even after the door shuts and the water begins to run, but quickly fades away to song. It’s a pretty melody--simple, easy,  _ warm  _ as the sound washes over him, tangling him in all the feelings he’s foregone in favor of keeping their status quo.

_ I’d like to be your beautiful hell,  _ Yuri sings, as though he’s not already. 

Otabek sits on the mattress, laying back and running his hands through his hair with a sharp exhale. It is  _ stupid  _ how gone he is for Yuri, as is the amount of time he’s lingered here in this state. But he’s convinced himself that this, their friendship, is enough, and Yuri doesn’t seem too eager to disrupt what they’ve got going. 

At least he’d let the  _ baby _ go without a fight.

If he’d asked, wondered after why it was so easy for Otabek to let it slip, Otabek probably would’ve frozen and said something stupid. As it is, he almost wishes that were the case. He can work with stupid, but silence...these fleeting moments of  _ more  _ rest heavy on his heart and make him wonder if Yuri’s holding back in a similar way. 

He tugs the covers over his face when the water shuts off, listening to the sounds of Yuri drying himself and dressing before he flops down next to him. “No more sleeping,” he says. “Russia waits for no man.”

“‘M not sleeping,” Otabek says, growling when Yuri tugs the blanket away. “I was using that.”

“Use this instead.” Yuri presses a brush into his hand and sits up, water beading on the ends of his hair and soaking into his shirt, a few stray drops running down the side of his neck. 

_ This  _ is easy. Otabek can lose himself in the motions, can focus on the way the water is cool on his folded legs as he smooths away the tangles and wrangles them into a braid. He can latch onto the pride that swells him in when Yuri feels the back of his head and declares it’s perfect as always.

He can bite his tongue against a soft whine when Yuri reaches back to pat his cheek.

“Thanks,” Yuri says, soft and pure as he leans back for a split second.

“Any time,” Otabek says, but that’s not quite true, because the time to leave draws ever-closer. He sighs. Three days is never enough with Yuri, but it’s what he can get, and so he’ll take it. “Want to take the bike?”

“Is that even a question?” 

It never is, because Otabek knows Yuri loves riding with him. Yuri loves to tease him about itt, too, tells him that he probably loves the bike more than other people. 

The other man pulls him back close when he shifts away, opening the camera and ordering him to smile. “We don’t have any recent pictures together,” he pouts when Otabek gives him a look. “Please?”

“Yura…”

“Okay, don’t smile then,” Yuri says, and snaps a picture anyway. He takes another seconds later, when Otabek’s lips twitch up of their own volition. “There. See? A smile looks good on you, crab-ass.”

“Whatever,” Otabek says, wrestling against a bigger smile and losing. He falls back to the bed with his hands covering his face, peeking through his fingers when he hears the shutter sound again. “Really?”

“Can I post this?” Yuri tosses the phone onto Otabek’s chest, opened to the picture. Even Otabek has to admit it’s sort of cute--what’s visible of his face is pink, and half his smile shines through the gap in his palms. 

It’s the sort of candid shot that screams  _ intimacy,  _ and he nods, throat thick. “Fine. But send it to me, too.”

“Deal.” Yuri steals his phone back and a few seconds later, Otabek’s buzzes on the dresser. It buzzes again when Yuri tags him on Instagram, the picture captioned with a quip about finding a rare Altin smile in the wild. “There. Now the world knows you’re capable of being more than a stoic badass at all times.”

“Fuck you,” Otabek groans, shoving at Yuri’s thigh with a foot. “Next time, I get to put up pictures of you getting choked up over cat videos.”

“I do not!” Yuri protests, and they go back and forth about it until time runs out and they’re pulling on sleek black helmets, because Yuri has a flight to catch. The bike purrs between their legs on the way to the airport and when they get there,  _ goodbye  _ catches on their tongues. 

Otabek gives him an awkward, one-armed hug before it’s  _ really  _ time to go. He wishes it were more, but he’s already seen the comments on Instagram wondering why exactly they’re in a bed together. 

Why Yuri makes him smile.

“Safe travels,” he says when they part. “Text me when you get home?”

“Of course,” Yuri says, and then, so softly Otabek barely hears it, “baby.” He smirks and turns away before Otabek can do more than drop his jaw in shock, and vanishes by the time one coherent thought manages to swim to the surface. 

_ Me [10:27 AM]: _

_ Jerk _

_ Yura [10:28 AM]: _

_ Do you say that to all the pretty people you bring back to your place, or am I special? ;) _

Otabek struggles with what exactly to say next, because coming up with anything other than  _ you’re the only one I’d say it to, idiot  _ is too difficult surrounded by the busyness of other people. He starts a million texts, erases them all, and grinds his palm against his forehead as he sticks the phone in his pocket. It buzzes a few times before he takes it out again, several more texts waiting.

_ Yura [10:34 AM]: _

_ Sorry _

_ Just thought it was funny lol _

_ I guess you’re going home already but I forgot to say goodbye, so...bye, Beka _

_ Pet Tarja for me _

_ Drive safely _

He wishes he could melt, puddle onto the floor of the concourse and be spread into nothingness by other travelers’ shoes. More likely is that he’ll turn to ash, blowing away on the wind--his face is so heated he’s pretty sure people are staring at the probable ring of flames around his head. 

Shaking his head, he turns on his heel and walks out, Yuri’s voice fogging his head and his texts unanswered for now. It’ll be hours before he’d see it, anyway--Otabek has time to come up with something better than  _ I’d kill for the chance to call you that again.  _ The crowded streets do nothing to help with his fraying nerves and he slams the door to his apartment when he gets home, tossing both helmets onto the couch before slouching down with both hands over his face. 

Tarja flops down over a foot and bats at the hem of his pants, protesting when he picks her up and cradles her against his chest. “You let Yuri do it, don’t give me that attitude,” he says.

She meows at him.

He fishes out his phone with another low sigh, stares at the messages until the words begin to blur together. At the very least, he can give Yuri what he wants, so he takes a picture of Tarja attacking his hand when he attempts to touch her stomach.

_ Me [11:42 PM]: _

_ I think she likes you better _

_ (image attached) _

_ Me [11:46 PM]: _

_ (image attached) _

The second photo is of Tarja curled on his lap, her irritations forgotten in the minutes he ignored her. There’s the slightest bit of a smile visible in the corner, and he hopes that’s enough to help Yuri see he isn’t angry, only caught by surprise. Yuri’s sensitive about things like this, he knows. He may not like to show it, but Otabek knows better. Soldier eyes hide a delicate, dedicated heart, and anger still masks the anxiety that’s plagued him for far too long now.

With that in mind, he fires off one final text, hoping a run will distract him from the way his stomach’s fluttering nervously. 

**

Yuri Plisetsky hates a great deal of things. He enjoys far fewer, and because of this, when he  _ loves,  _ he’s able to love with his entire being. Three things have, and likely always will, held steady at the top--his grandfather, skating, and cats. 

Otabek Altin’s trying too fucking hard to worm his way onto the list. 

With a low sigh, Yuri sinks lower into the plane seat. It’s not like he even needs to  _ try-- _ Yuri would shove Potya and Tarja and his grandpa and all the quads he’s going for this year to the edges of his heart if only it meant there was room for his best friend, but Beka’s never…

He’s never  _ wanted  _ him like that.

He’s never  _ said  _ it, at least.

It’s hard not to fixate on the memory of  _ baby  _ from this morning, harder still to keep his thoughts from running rampant to include that same  _ baby  _ whispered harshly in his ear as Otabek grinds slowly into him. 

At least there’s no one in the seat next to him to glare over at the way he shifts uncomfortably at the mental image. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it more than a few times over the years, ever since Beka stole him away in Barcelona and never looked back. Their lives have become inexorably tangled, each passing day and selfie exchanged another knot in this nebulous thing that is  _ them.  _

Yuri sighs, lets his head tip toward the window as the terminal begins to slip away. It doesn’t do any good to think about the what-ifs when the question of  _ would he even  _ still remains, but that doesn’t stop him. He treasures these days in Almaty, always. They’re a blessed break from the speed at which he lives his life in Russia, always on the move and hurtling toward whatever fresh hell Lilia and Yakov have got planned for him.

Almaty is easy.

Being with Otabek is  _ simple,  _ except when it’s  _ not,  _ because of one single word. 

“Baby,” he whispers to himself, bringing both hands up to hide the way he can feel himself blushing.  _ Fuck  _ if it’s not the sweetest thing he’s ever heard Beka say. Slow, smooth, just the right amount of rough as his eyes had slipped shut…

“And you had to go ruin it, dipshit,” he says. He lightly smacks his palm against his forehead. “Par for the course.”

There’s nothing he can do about it now, though, not for several hours at least. No use focusing on what he should’ve done, either, which is give a better apology. Beka’s lucky he got what he did, though--normally he’d let it go without so much as a second thought, but Beka’s different. 

He always has been, and Yuri  _ hates  _ how stupidly cliche the whole thing sounds. Here he is, miles in the air, and instead of thinking about anything  _ worth  _ thinking about, he’s fucking  _ pining.  _

Yuri Plisetsky does not  _ pine. _

Wants, maybe, but that’s nothing new. 

He allows himself to drift as the flight goes on, eventually gives into the memory of Otabek’s nails gently scratching his scalp as he braided. It’s already coming loose, his tossing and turning in the seat leaving little time for him to appreciate the way Otabek wove the strands together. 

By the time he’s landed and waiting for his bags, he’s managed to convince himself that maybe things aren’t so bad and they can just forget the whole thing. His heart clenches at the pictures of Tarja, at the little half-smile from Otabek, and he has to shove his phone back in his pocket when he reads the last text.

_ [Beka, 11:52 AM] _

_ I promise I really didn’t mind, I was just shocked _

_ It was cute _

“Fuck,” Yuri curses, earning himself a glare from the woman with a small child to his left. “What?”

She doesn’t answer, just brushes past him on her way to get her bags, and to his relief, she heads in the opposite direction when he picks his up. 

_ [Me, 4:24 PM] _

_ landed safely _

Beka doesn’t answer either, at least not within the time it takes Yuri to call a cab. He’s not really in the mood to be questioned by Viktor or Yuuri if he were to ask them for a ride, not when  _ it was cute  _ is staring him straight in the face as he holds his phone open. 

_ “I’m  _ not the cute one,” he snarls at the pavement.  _ “He’s  _ the one who looked like... _ that  _ all morning.” He folds his arms as he waits, hood up and glowering at everyone who dares give him a second glance. The driver, thankfully, picks up on the air of misery, and doesn’t speak more than the necessary words on the way back to his apartment.

Even Potya seems to understand there’s something not right, electing to sit on the arm of the couch he sprawls face-first on. “I’m going to die, Potya, and it’s all his fault,” he announces. “I’m leaving everything to you. Take good care of it.”

She bats at a few loose hairs as his phone buzzes against his stomach.

_ [Beka, 5:02 PM] _

_ Had dinner with my family _

_ (image attached) _

_ Glad you made it _

Yuri turns over, huffs as Potya walks over his chest to curl up on his stomach. He should go eat as well, but Beka’s dinner is good enough to look at for now. He holds his fingers over the keyboard for entirely too long as he considers what exactly to text back. He doesn’t, usually, when it’s just a simple picture, and so...he maintains the status quo.

The phone nearly hits Potya’s head and he winces when she digs her claws in, smoothing her ears back as repayment in the next second. There’s probably plenty he could be doing,  _ should  _ be doing, even, but Potya’s a warm weight, and her rumbling purr is soothing enough that he soon decides none of those things are worth it and curls up in his bed instead.

He keeps the phone by his pillow, tells himself it’s not so he can wake up hoping for the pre-bed selfies Beka sends him sometimes. He’s got plenty saved to his phone at this point, of course--it’s not like he  _ needs  _ another.

But he  _ wants _ one.

Groaning, he pulls the covers over his face and swipes the camera open. All that’s visible is one eye and a mess of hair, as well as Potya’s tail slung across his nose. Not the most dazzling selfie he’s taken, not by a long shot, but it’s  _ real,  _ and Otabek’s told him more than once that he likes seeing that side of him.

_ “I like this Yuri,”  _ he’d said when Yuri sent him a fever-flushed face captioned  _ fuck whatever plague rat touched me. _

_ “And this one,”  _ he’d said, just seconds after opening a post-workout, sweat-drenched selfie with no context.

_ “And this one,”  _ he’d said, not twelve hours ago when Yuri had woken up hanging gracelessly off the bed. And then, he’d grinned and pushed him the rest of the way onto the floor. 

“What’s it going to take for him to say it again, Potya?” he asks, watching as the checkmark on the bottom of the screen turns from the grey of  _ delivered  _ to green of  _ opened.  _ His heart slows to a near stop when Otabek begins to type, and he does his best not to let his exhale become an exasperated sigh when there’s no picture attached to the next message.

_ [Beka, 6:13 PM] _

_ Sleep well. Tarja misses her scratching post _

And Yuri’s not an idiot. The cat doesn’t give a shit whether she scratches Otabek’s leg or Yuri’s in the morning, but apparently that’s what he’s going to get for tonight, and he’s left to pick at why such a stupid sentence makes his heart flutter. He just looks at his lockscreen, holding it open until he’s had his fill of the way Beka’s eyes crease with a smile, the way his cheeks dust pink when he laughs.

What he is, he thinks as he sets the phone down and begins to drift off, is completely, utterly  _ fucked,  _ and when he wakes up way too early the next morning, he’s still positive of it. There’s dozens more comments on the Instagram picture that he gives up halfway through scrolling through when he realizes that all it’s doing is making his chest ache, the way they all seem... _ congratulatory. _

“Nothing to congratulate me for,” he says sourly, nearly rolling over Potya as he swings himself off the bed. “Can’t even get a proper good night picture.”

He doesn’t stop thinking about it during a longer-than-usual run, nor does he stop thinking about it when he stops by Yakov’s at Lilia’s request to discuss some things about the upcoming season.

“You’re going to beat that Altin boy this year,” Yakov says.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Yakov says, and thankfully, that’s the last Yuri hears of Otabek before Viktor texts him later that evening.

_ [Viktor, 4:14 PM] _

_ YURA!! _

_ How was Almaty??? _

_ How was Otabek ;) _

_ I thought that picture was the cutest thing, you’re adorable together _

_ So happy for you! _

_ [Me, 4:15 PM] _

_ fuck off _

_ [Viktor, 4:15 PM] _

_ Oh no _

_ Did something happen?? _

_ Or are you just being you _

Yuri doesn’t manage to fire off another curse before Viktor’s name lights up the screen, phone vibrating in his hands before he lets out an angry grunt and swipes the answer button. “What?” he growls.

_ “Is everything all right?” _

In the background, Yuri can hear other Yuuri begging please put the phone down, Viktor, he’s probably fine, and he makes a note to go  _ just  _ a little easier on him next time they meet in person. Only a little, though. “It’s fine,” he snips. “What the fuck necessitates a call?”

_ “Didn’t you see Otabek’s picture today?” _

“No.”

_ “Yura,”  _ Viktor says, drawing out the last syllable.  _ “He captioned it ‘Better with you,’ and it’s a really nice view.”  _

“Goodbye, Viktor.”

_ “Wait--” _

Yuri hangs up before Viktor can say anything more, immediately opening Instagram and hunting for the picture. Sure enough, there it is--it’s the view from Otabek’s kitchen window, the people in the street small figures shadowed by the sun-soaked trees lining the sidewalks. There’s the corner of his mug in the corner, with Beka’s right next to it, and Yuri’s face twists along with his heart. 

He types out several variations of  _ is ‘you’ me?  _ in Otabek’s DMs before he gets home, and once the door closes behind him, he sets the phone away instead. The laptop gets dragged out not five seconds later, but hey, five seconds is five seconds that he has to consider things before he pulls up Skype and hits the call button. 

It’s early enough, he reasons. And, well, late enough that Otabek might even be in--

“A towel,” he says when the other man answers, wholly surprised and hoping Otabek doesn’t notice his voice cracking.  _ Not  _ the bed he was expecting. “Nice.”

“I was just about to get in the shower,” Otabek says, rubbing at his nape. “Call me back in twenty minutes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Yuri says. He  _ doesn’t  _ stare.  _ Doesn’t. _ “Sorry.”

“It’s all good,” Otabek says, and his soft smile is every bit as disarming as his chest as he leans forward to end the call, leaving Yuri gnawing on his lip in frustration, fingers buried in Potya’s fur as he dutifully waits. Well, not entirely--he  _ does  _ get up to snatch his phone, stares at the picture for a while, and tries to figure out who else Otabek could  _ possibly  _ be talking to that he’s all the sudden  _ sentimental.  _

“Stupid,” he mutters. He sinks deeper into the couch and pulls his hood up, feet on the coffee table as he pulls the ties shut. “It’s feelings, Potya. They’re all fucking dumb, and you’re lucky all you have to deal with is when your dish gets filled.”

She hops into his lap and bats at his sweatshirt strings as though attempting to say  _ now’s the time. _

“Get off,” he mumbles, shoving halfheartedly at her before deciding it’s not worth it and giving up. “You’re just as useless as everyone else, you know that?”

Now, at least, she has the decency to look a bit scandalized.

“Yeah, I said it.”

A low meow is his only answer before she stalks off, presumably to do something nefarious, as she always does when he tells her she’s not the perfect princess she likes to think she is. 

It seems like forever until twenty minutes is up, but eventually it comes, and Yuri’s greeted by another smile before he manages  _ hey, Beka  _ several long seconds later.

“Yura,” Beka says.  _ Teases.  _ “Miss me already?”

“No,” Yuri says.

“Ah,” Otabek says. He sits on the bed and towels his hair, and if Yuri were  _ there,  _ he’d be having a much harder time controlling the way his blood’s beginning to travel south. “What’s up, then?”

“Oh...you know…” Potya jumps up in his lap again, wipes her tail across his face and leaves him sputtering. “Just being assaulted by a vicious beast. Stuff. The usual.”

Otabek hums and leans back to snag Tarja from his pillow, and  _ god,  _ Yuri’s glad he has several thousand miles between them, because the way Otabek’s muscles bunch make him want to do sinful things. “Did you have a good day?”

Yeah, Yuri definitely should’ve come up with a better plan than just  _ ask him if he meant you.  _ He sighs, shrugs. “Promised Yakov I’d whip your ass this year,” he says. “Get ready to be toppled from the podium.”

“Bring it on,” Otabek chuckles. 

Silence falls, then, but it’s not particularly awkward. Yuri picks up his phone and scrolls mindlessly while Otabek gets himself ready for bed, and what conversation they  _ do  _ have falls strictly on the safe-for-work spectrum, carefully avoiding every question Yuri’s bundled up close to his chest until Otabek begins to yawn.

“It’s late,” he says when he’s finished, flopping back onto his pillows. “You sure it wasn’t anything?”

“Yeah,” Yuri’s mouth says before his brain can catch up, and Otabek looks... _ relieved?  _ Shit. “Nice picture, by the way. Earlier.”

Otabek buries his face in the bedspread. “Liked it?”

“Caption was pretty fucking sappy.”

“Oh, whatever,” Otabek snorts. He yawns again, and when Yuri says goodnight with minimal snark, he smiles that stupid smile that makes Yuri’s stomach tie itself in knots. “No further captioning wisdom?”

“Go to bed, Otabek,” Yuri says. He rolls his eyes and lets Otabek see a glimpse of his smile before he ends the call, shutting his laptop and groaning. Potya grumbles at him until he swings her into his arms and holds her close, kissing her forehead on their way to the kitchen. “You and me against the world, right? Maybe he’ll get his head out of his ass eventually. Maybe.”

_ Hopefully. _

**Author's Note:**

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